


Marks of Trust

by Kyele



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Cock Cages, Consensual Infidelity, D/s undertones, Episode s02e04 Emilie, F/M, Kink Meme, M/M, Power Exchange, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kink meme: <i>Milady/Treville. After D'Artagnan, King Louis and an young Athos, Milady would like to try an experienced man.</i></p><p>Then I pitched OP on a combination of "we're-both-doing-the-dirty-work-while-Richelieu-relaxes-having-faked-his-death sex" and "Milady incorrectly assuming that Richelieu left his spy empire to Treville and trying to get in on it sex", OP said that sounded good, and here we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marks of Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TailorFox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TailorFox/gifts).



> For [this prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/2286.html?thread=3313134#cmt3313134) on the bbcmusketeers kink meme: _Milady/Treville. After D'Artagnan, King Louis and an young Athos, Milady would like to try an experienced man._
> 
> I wouldn't call this a full-on dark AU, but Treville himself is definitely greyer in this than the show presents him. 
> 
> This is set right at the end of series 2 episode 4 and probably will go AU fairly quickly after that, but don't let that fool you into thinking there's going to be some kind of plot here. (There isn't.)

Milady kills Perales. There’s nothing else for it. She has no intention of being Rochefort’s tame bitch, but the time horizon is simply too short for her to evade his leash immediately. Besides, she has no love for the Spanish Ambassador. And neither does the man she’s hoping will get her out of this.

Rochefort’s attitude towards her is a slap in the face. He doesn’t respect her professionalism or skill. He rapes her with his eyes and leaves no room for her to ply him with seduction. And the light of madness in his eyes is the outside of enough.

She’d foolishly allowed herself to believe she might be past putting up with such nonsense. The Cardinal had never behaved that way. Iron control, icy cool, and ultimate rationality, that had been Richelieu. He’d required a sample of her charms, of course, when Milady had first entered his service, and she’d made sure to impress. But afterwards, Richelieu had behaved as if she were about as sexually desirable as a block of wood. She’d found that cool control as admirable as it had been occasionally infuriating. It would have been nice if she could have used her body to advance further in the Cardinal’s good will. It would certainly have helped considerably in the matter of Anne’s failed assassination, when he’d cast her aside.

Oh, that had hurt. Milady had believed, working for him, that she might have finally found the place where she belonged. Richelieu had known all her secrets; he hadn’t cared, and she hadn’t had to hide. Like Rochefort, he’d treated her as an object. All men did. The difference is that Richelieu had treated her as a precision weapon. With care for her condition, respect for her sharp edge, and admiration of her skill. He’d been the only man she’d ever met who hadn’t cared one whit for her sex.

No. No, that’s a lie. There had been another.

* * *

Milady washes the poison from her blade carefully and slides it away into its little wrist sheath. Then the King’s mistress takes a stroll through the palace grounds, taking care to be seen by as many people as possible. It’s unlikely in the extreme that anyone at court will connect her with the ambassador’s death, but it never pays it take chances.

“It was you,” a rough voice says from behind her.

She allows herself to smile as she turns around. No, no one _at court_ will think of her as a deadly assassin. But there are others with access to the palace who know better.

Milady offers the Captain of the King’s Musketeers her smoothest smile.

Treville smiles at her in return and offers his arm. She accepts it gracefully. Together they stroll through the King’s gardens, another couple enjoying the fresh air.

“It was you,” he repeats at length.

Milady flutters her fan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says coquettishly. “Which is why it makes no difference if I answer: of course it was.”

“The whole setup was very neatly done,” Treville compliments her.

She lowers her eyelashes in acceptance. It serves as acknowledgement of what had been said and what had been left unsaid. The ambassador’s death had indeed been arranged very neatly. So had this meeting.

“What I can’t figure out,” Treville continues, “is why you specified that I personally escort Perales to the gates.”

“No?” Milady shrugs. “Dissimulation doesn’t become you, Captain. You know who ordered the ambassador’s death. You know what his ultimate goals are. And you know that they include you being gotten out of the way.”

She’s not telling him anything he hadn’t already known. At least, she hopes she isn’t. If she is, she’s misread this situation very badly indeed. If she isn’t, then it’s Rochefort who’s misread everything – to her ultimate gain.

“This furthered those goals very nicely,” Treville agrees, to her relief.

“So you have your answer.”

“Your goals aren’t his.”

“Aren’t they?” Milady twirls her fan, playing coy. “Are you sure?”

“And yet here we are,” Treville says.

“Yes,” she agrees.

They’ve reached the center of the maze. One exit leads back to the palace. The other, out of the grounds and to the streets of Paris, back to the Musketeers’ garrison. This conversation is approaching its natural end. Which means it’s time to abandon banter and get to the point.

Milady disengages her arm from Treville’s. “Do you know,” she says idly. “Rochefort believes, that I believe, that a single favor will close the accounts between us.”

“Then he’s a greater fool than I take him for. You know perfectly well that the scales are only balanced in increments of two.”

“And yet, if I move against him, it will be I who finds herself being held in the balance.” Milady closes her fan and slides it away up one voluminous sleeve. “I need someone else to add weight.”

There are eyes and ears everywhere, and nowhere more so than in the palace. _Someone else_ is as close as she dares come to the name _Richelieu_.

The Cardinal’s apparent death had been very well staged indeed. So well staged that it had fooled her completely for months. She’d been shocked. She hadn’t mourned. Not then. She’d still been too furious over Richelieu’s abandonment. She’d mourned since, selfishly, when she’d realized exactly how far she’s going to fall without his patronage.

It’s just as well she’s never been one to give up. Returning to court had brought the picture into clearer focus. Yes, the death had been very well staged, and from a distance it had fooled her. From up close she can see the disjointed edges. She has the advantage of having worked for the Cardinal for many years, of course. It’s possible that that gives her an advantage others lack. It’s possible that seeing through the illusion is the natural result of her well-honed wit and cunning.

Or. It’s also possible – just possible – that the rough spots are deliberate. That they’d been _meant_ for her. That the Cardinal is calling her back to his service, even from beyond the not-quite-grave.

If that’s true, there’s one other man in Paris who will know it. She’s talking to him now.

Treville’s nod acknowledges this. But out loud he says, “As you pointed out earlier, I am poorly suited to court intrigue.”

She takes a gamble. “Your behavior would seem to support that conclusion. Over and over again you fail to see the simplest of snares coming, and fall into them headfirst. You’ve been taking one hit after another, Captain. Where do you think it will end?”

Treville affects a worried look. “Indeed, at this rate I fear for my command.”

She has to hold back her cry of triumph. She’d wondered, she’d doubted herself, she’d questioned whether she’d only been seeing what she wanted to see. In the dead of the night she’d thought it. _Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Richelieu really is dead in the ground, molding away uncaring of what goes on above. Maybe Treville is exactly what he seems to be, the earnest and stupid soldier with a few too many morals for his own good, not the man under the cloak I’ve seen slipping in and out of Richelieu’s bedchamber a few too many nights to be a coincidence._

Now she knows. And now she can act. Richelieu is playing a long con. She wants in.

“Rochefort is trying to convince Louis to exile you from court,” she reports. “He’s also considering various charges of incompetence.”

“Worried about me?” Treville smiles. “I’ll be fine.”

“Of course I’m worried about you,” she snaps. “I want to be back in _his_ good graces.”

She’d fallen out of Richelieu’s good graces the first time because she’d failed to properly appreciate his priorities. Once she’d caught hold of the idea that he might be alive, she’d devoted a considerable amount of time to learning what they truly are. France. The King. And, crucially, the man in front of her.

Now she knows how to act. Her path back to favor begins with Treville.

“How did you end up working for that group of slavers d’Artagnan found you with?” Treville asks.

Milady frowns at the non sequiter. “They’re the only contacts I had left after _he_ cast me aside,” she hisses. The anger at the memory is a far too familiar spike. She still worries at it, like a toothache she can’t leave alone. She’d erred when she’d tried to please Richelieu by having Anne assassinated. She knows it now. She’d known it then, when he’d pinned her to the wall by her neck in his fury. But she would have done anything he’d demanded to make it right. Richelieu hadn’t had to cast her aside. He certainly hadn’t had to salt the earth behind her.

“Really?” Treville has the audacity to raise a skeptical eyebrow.

“Everyone else had heard about what happened in Paris. They wouldn’t touch me with a ten foot pole.”

“But this group hadn’t heard?”

She crosses her arms. “Fortunately for me.”

Treville takes her hand, tugging it loose from her arms, and brings it to his lips. As he does he draws closer. His lips are millimeters from hers. He murmurs: “Do you really think _he_ would be so careless as to leave any contact of yours intact, if he had truly wished to destroy you? Do you really think that your being in that place, at that time, under exactly those circumstances was a coincidence? Your pardon, a trick of fate? Your seduction of the King, your place in his court, an accident?”

Her eyes widen. Can it be? Can it really go _that_ deep?

“Do you really think that you are where you are for any other reason than that it is exactly where _he_ wishes you to be?”

Her other hand goes to her throat, rubbing restlessly at the concealed scar there. “Then he hasn’t put me aside?”

“The only loyalty in question here is your own.”

“I am his creature,” she swears. Her eyes bore into Treville’s, alight with fervor. “I have always been.”

“He knows,” Treville promises. He kisses her hand lightly, then releases it, stepping away. “A pleasure walking with you, Milady.”

He begins to turn away.

“Wait,” Milady cries, seizing his arm and making him stop. “What am I to do?”

“Exactly as you would do regardless,” Treville answers. “Behave as yourself. _He_ is counting on it.”

“Should I stop Rochefort from – ”

“On no account. If you did so he’d move against you, too. You need to stay by Louis so you can protect him.”

“That’s your job.”

“Not for much longer. As we were just discussing.”

“Your commission – ” she begins.

Treville’s smile has nothing of the bluff, forthright, honest Musketeer about it. “We’re reversing roles, you and I,” he says softly. “You will remain by the King’s side and protect him. From everything and everyone. And most especially from Rochefort.”

“And you?” she asks.

Treville steps away and bows ironically. “I will do _his_ dirty work.”

* * *

Treville’s final fall from grace happens exactly as he’d prophesied. Milady attempts to argue with Louis, at first, when Rochefort pushes Treville out. Louis rebuffs her. Her first instinct is to double down. She remembers too well what happened the _last_ time someone touched a hair on the head of someone Richelieu considers his to protect. She doesn’t want to be cast aside again.

But in the old days, she’d never have acted to protect Treville. And Treville had given her the order directly: _behave as yourself._ He _is counting on it._ So Milady lowers her eyes, bows her head, and lives to fight another day.

Those words haunt her. _Behave as yourself._ As soon as she thinks them, she knows what her next move would have been, in the old days. Once she realizes it, she can’t forget it. Milady spends three days wrestling with herself over the correct course of action. Which is better? To do as she would have done before – or to apply her newfound knowledge and stay away?

 _He is counting on it._ On the third day, Milady walks past Treville on the streets of Paris. Their gazes meet only for a second. But the accusation is plain for her to read on his face: _why aren’t you doing it?_

That night, she sneaks into the Musketeers’ garrison and into his private office.

“Finally,” Treville says. “Close the door.”

Milady does.

“What took you so long?”

“I wasn’t sure – ”

“I told you. Behave as yourself. The old you would have been in here trying to seduce me the night after I lost my commission.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have been here,” Milady evades. “After all, these are the _Captain’s_ quarters.”

Treville looks amused. “And you thought Louis would kick me out? Hardly.”

“He stripped you of your command.”

“Yes. But the idea that there might be consequences beyond that never occurred to him. He expects me to stay right here, where I’ve always been, and go on doing what I’ve always done. He’d be terribly offended if I were to do otherwise.”

“How does he expect you to do it without your rank?”

“As far as he’s concerned, my rank has nothing to do with it. It’s the natural order of the universe.”

Milady shakes her head. “Well, what are we going to do?”

Treville raises an eyebrow. “You’re going to seduce me.”

“Of course I’m not!” she protests, horrified.

“Should I be offended?” Treville makes a production of looking down at himself critically, lips pursed. “Armand’s not one to whisper pretty compliments, but from his previous reaction I didn’t think I was _that_ off-putting.”

In spite of herself Milady finds herself smiling. “You’re well enough for a man,” she admits readily. “But you’re Richelieu’s. I learned my lesson the first time. I’m not touching what’s his.”

Treville shakes his head. “You’re supposed to. It’s what everyone expects.”

“I hope not. Otherwise my reputation will be ruined.”

Treville grins. It’s nothing like the wide, honest grin his Musketeers see. “You know what I mean. Everyone who matters. Everyone who knows the game that’s really being played. Louis just cut me loose; Rochefort’s got what he wants. I’m out. And yet I’m still floating around the court, a free radical. What happens next?”

“Someone murders you.” In spite of herself, Milady shivers. Richelieu had been furious at the mere attempt on Anne’s life. Even her imagination fails to imagine the Cardinal’s reaction if Treville should actually be killed.

“I think we both know that’s not in the plan,” Treville agrees.

“I suppose I have to protect you,” Milady says. It’s an odd thought. She’s usually on the other side of the knife. “Good Lord. I have no idea how to go about doing that.”

“Your reputation will do it for you. All you have to do is be seen to attach me. Two free radicals aligning for their own mutual protection. It’s natural enough.”

“Except that you’re the bluff, honest man of action and I’m the grand deceiver. Why should we work together?”

“You’re overestimating me. We don’t work together. You’ve ensnared me with your wiles and your charms. I’m besotted, completely blind to your flaws and willing to follow wherever you lead, because I believe whatever wild tale you’ve spun.”

“Ah,” Milady says, enlightened. “That’s why I’m seducing you. All right. Yes, I can do that easily.”

Treville watches her expectantly. “Well?”

She blinks. “Well, what?”

“Well, I’m waiting to be seduced.”

“I thought we covered this already,” she says.

Treville nods. Then he picks a folded piece of paper off his desk and hands it to Milady.

“What’s this?” she asks, holding it loosely in her hand.

Treville smiles. “Armand did think you might need his permission.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. After a moment she opens the letter and looks down at the familiar writing.

_Milady,_

_If you’re reading this, you’ve found your way back to your proper place. I congratulate you. The path laid in front of you was, of all my servants, the most challenging. That you’ve navigated it successfully validates the trust I have placed in you many times over._

_In my absence, trust your instincts and act as you think best. You may rely upon me to have taken your character into account. In the event more direct orders are required they will come from the man who handed you this letter. You will have realized by now how I value him. Keep that in mind in everything you do for me._

_When last we spoke, I took something from you. I leave you something now in return. Limit your use of it to once a week. Consider it a mark of my trust and esteem. Use it wisely._

_Richelieu_

“He signed his name,” she says, dizzy.

“On an undated letter to a known associate,” Treville points out. “It could have been written months ago. As a matter of fact, it _was_ written months ago. I’ve been holding it for you.”

“It says he left something for me, but...” She folds up the letter again. A glint of silver catches her eye.

She turns the paper over. Sealed to the back of it is a small silver key.

Curiously, she slides a fingernail under the seal. Wax scatters and the key falls into her hands. It’s small and light. Well-made, though. And very curiously shaped.

Something niggles at her memory. She’s seen a key like this before. Where?

“This is what he left for me?”

Treville smiles. He drinks the rest of his wine and gets up from behind his desk. “Coming?” he asks, walking back into his bedroom.

Almost automatically she follows him. She’s still puzzling over the small key. “Once a week, the letter said,” she says slowly. “What could possibly…”

The memory falls into place. Startled, she looks up.

Treville sits down on his bed and starts tugging his boots off. “I thought you’d recognize it,” he says with some satisfaction. “Armand thought you mightn’t. We had a little bet about it.”

“You?” she asks superfluously. “The key is for you?”

“Of course.” He laughs. “You can’t seriously imagine Armand – ”

She tries to picture it and nearly giggles herself. “Certainly not.”

“No.” Treville smiles as well. Boots off, he begins unlacing his shirt.

The smile slides from Milady’s face. “This is permission.” She hefts the key. “The Cardinal’s giving me _you_?”

“Loaning,” Treville corrects. “Think of it as… caretaking.”

She considers it. “Who’s been doing it before now?”

“No one.”

“No one?” She looks down at the key she holds again. “For months?”

Treville’s smile turns into an outright grin. “So you can see now why I’ve been so insistent that you seduce me.”

“Yes. Yes, I…” She closes her mouth. She’s going about this the wrong way. The key in her hand gives her power. The letter in her pocket gives her authority. She’s supposed to be acting as Richelieu’s deputy. She doubts that Richelieu stops for chit-chat in the bedroom.

She closes her eyes briefly and reaches for her center. It’s easy to slip into the right mindset. In many ways she and the Cardinal are alike. This is one of them. They both enjoy games of control. She hadn’t guessed that Richelieu would play this particular game – or, no, rather, she hadn’t guessed that Richelieu’s lover would permit him to play it. But she’s aware now that she’s been misjudging Treville for months.

Milady opens her eyes. “Breeches next,” she orders. “I want to see.”

Treville blinks slowly. His eyes darken several shades in rapid succession. He doesn’t answer directly, but his fingers speed up on his laces, and he’s barely slid out of his shirtsleeves before he’s working on his sword-belt.

Milady looks around the room quickly, taking in her surroundings. The bed is big enough for two – perks of being the Captain, she supposes – but there’s a comfortable chair placed just in the corner, where it will have a commanding view of the bed. That’s no accident. Had Richelieu liked to watch? It doesn’t matter. Milady likes watching very much indeed. She’s travelled far and sampled much, and nothing has ever matched the sight of a man held under control for her pleasure.

She walks across the room with even, measured steps. She settles herself into the chair like a queen on her throne. And Treville slides his breeches off with a wicked shimmy and stands exposed to her view.

The cage is smaller than she’d expected. She’s never seen one in use before; in fact, this is only the second she’s ever seen. The first had been in the toy chest of a woman in Lomme who had taught Anne de Breuil many of the tricks that have since served her so well. As the Comtesse de la Fère, she’d dreamed of putting just such a cage on Olivier one day. That hadn’t happened. But this…

She holds out her hand, imperiously. Treville walks forward, pace slow, giving her the opportunity to order him to halt at any point. She doesn’t. She lets him walk right up until she can reach out and cup his caged cock in her palm.

Up close, the metalwork is exquisite. The silver must be pure, for it’s warm to her touch, and there are signs that the device has molded slightly to its wearer. It doesn’t cover the cock completely. The shaft is encased, but only about half the head. The balls are completely exposed, but held down from the shaft by a silver band.

“And you’ve been wearing this since the Cardinal’s death,” Milady breathes. The power inherent in the cage makes her shiver with delight. She drags one nail gently over Treville’s exposed cockhead and watches him shiver, too.

“I’ve been wearing it longer than that,” he says. “But that’s the last time it was off.”

“Doesn’t he trust you?”

“With many great things. And I trust him with this.”

She leans forward and breathes delicately on the tiny sliver of visible skin. “What would you have done if he hadn’t left me this key?”

“Waited,” Treville gasps.

“For how long?”

“Until he came back.”

“And if he’d never come back?” She pulls away as she asks. This is an answer she wants to hear without any interference on her part.

Treville smiles. “Then I’d be waiting for a long time,” he says simply.

Milady smiles back. _Now_ she understands. And in that understanding comes safety. Her error had been in not knowing what makes the Cardinal tick. She’d overstepped and paid the price. Now that she knows, now that she understands, she’ll never make that mistake again. She’s safe. She’s _home_.

“Bed,” Milady orders. “On your back. Are you any good at cunnilingus?”

“No,” Treville says, obeying. “But I’m a fast learner.”


End file.
